TMI
by Mardy Lass
Summary: Sam and Dean go to Michigan on a Hunt, and inadvertently find out more about each other than is comfortable. Mid-season 2. No spoilers. Just for fun!
1. Chapter 1

**ONE**

He careened through the blackness, his feet connecting harshly with the sodden ground. His hands grabbed at the trunks closest to him for purchase, hauling him through the forest. He risked a look back over his shoulder.

He collided with a tree, bouncing back and almost losing his footing. He turned and scrabbled through the spare branches, pushing and shoving, urging his feet not to slip against the leaf mould.

"Stop!"

He ignored the shout, forging on. The forest floor was not helping him but he picked up the pace, furiously wrenching through the trees, grabbing at low branches for help, not even feeling the drag and potential sting of leaves in his face. His desperate panting was deafening, the sweat and fear on his face competing for importance.

His brain climbed down from its panicked decision to flee and started to work.

_He's never gonna stop. I am screwed. Unless…_

He stopped abruptly, looking up and around. He found the tree with the largest trunk and threw himself at it, kicking his trainers into the bark and hauling himself up.

_Don't have to evade him for long. Just a little while longer…_

He hurled himself up the tree.

Something large and covered in leaves swept into his body suddenly. He cried out in surprise. He realised his hands had let go. There was the fleeting sensation of floating.

He landed in the mulch with a dull _thud_, crushing all the wind from him effortlessly. As he fought to breathe he stared up at the black sky, hoping against hope.

There was a noise of breaking twigs and he forced his head up off the ground.

Dean dropped the substantial branch from his hands, wiping them together professionally. He sniffed, looked over at Sam on his back, and walked over.

Sam sucked in air as best he could, coughing out the painful rasping lodged in his throat. Dean stopped, standing over him and shaking his head disapprovingly.

"Dude, you climb like a girl," he said scathingly. He put his hand to the back of his jeans, pulling out a nickel-plated Colt. He hefted it in his palm before looking at it and jamming the breech block back, pumping a round up into the chamber.

"Wait," Sam managed, swallowing and getting his breath back in one shot, "don't you do this!"

"Me?" he asked, surprised. The two of them stared at each other, their breath misting in the cold, damp wooded air. Just for a second, Dean appeared less than sure. Then he straightened his back, standing taller. "It's not me," he said simply, his confidence restored. "It's all you."

He lifted the handgun to point it at Sam's head.

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**Two days earlier…**

"Hey wow, this looks kinda cool," Sam said unexpectedly. Dean looked up from his oily rags and assorted gun parts, littered around him on the bed.

"What?" he asked, putting down the remnants of his nickel-plated Colt and walking over slowly.

"This. Random craziness out in Michigan," he offered, turning the laptop round for Dean to read.

"Random craziness," he pondered, as his eyes flicked over the information. "People just… going nuts?" he scoffed.

"Yup. Seems people in the small sleepy town are suddenly running around claiming they're not really them – until they lose it and kill someone," Sam shrugged. "Sound good to you?"

"Whatever," he shrugged diffidently, turning back to the bed. He paused. "You know, sometimes I'd just like a life where planning to go off and stop random crazies from killing people did not sound good to me," he muttered, sitting back on the bed and picking up half a gun.

"I know what you mean," Sam sighed, opening his notebook and taking down some details. It was silent as they scribbled and re-assembled, oblivious of the other.

After a while Dean stood and began packing his duffle.

"You ready?" he asked his younger brother. Sam closed the laptop and got himself ready to go.

"When you are," he said.

"Ladies first," Dean smiled, waving Sam to the door.

Sam sighed wearily and walked out of the small wooden room, crossing the parking lot to the Impala. He watched Dean close the door before walking the few doors to the reception, talking and smiling with the girl there. Phones came out of pockets and numbers were exchanged slowly, with the maximum of charm and smiles. It was a few minutes before Dean came out again and walked over to the car, noticing Sam's slightly disapproving look.

"What?" he asked suddenly.

"So that's where you were the first night?" Sam accused.

"What first night?" he asked, lost.

"We've been here four nights, Dean. You said you were at the bar all night the first night we were here. That's why I got a good night's sleep, cos you weren't in the room to snore," he pointed out.

"Like Hell I snore," he said indignantly, opening the door and climbing in. Sam followed suit, sliding into the seat and pushing his duffle through to the back seat. "Anyway, I _was_ in the bar all night," he added defensively, pushing the keys in the ignition barrel and turning the engine over slowly, letting the aggressive purr of the Impala cast a little ray of sunshine on his morning.

"Yeah, sure," Sam said sarcastically.

Dean huffed and put his hand out to the back of Sam's seat, turning to look back through the rear window and reverse the car out and round.

"Whatever, man," he muttered. "You have some stick up your ass."

"Meaning?"

Dean paused the car and turned back round in his seat, sliding it into gear and heading out of the parking lot.

"Meaning it wouldn't hurt you to find a little fun, spread a little joy now and again," he said, shrugging helplessly as they joined the main road. "For your information, we spent three hours playing pool."

"And then?"

"And then we decided it was too tough trying to play pool and remember to get shots in at the same time."

"That's cos you're a little blonde," Sam said snidely.

"You're just jealous," he said smugly, "cos I won two games of poker, and only lost one."

"You were playing poker with _girls_?" Sam asked, shaking his head. "You have no shame."

"Hey come on, they asked _me_," he said defensively. There was a silence.

"Oh no!" Sam moaned suddenly. "Dude, tell me you were _not_ playing strip poker?"

"Dude, I cannot tell a lie," he said gravely. "We were playing strip poker," he nodded, and then he kept nodding, his face breaking into a mammoth, satisfied grin. "This one girl, Cindy? Man, she had the longest–"

"Really Dean!" Sam interrupted.

"–streak of luck," he continued, oblivious of Sam's discomfort, "and _the_ most spectacular pair of–"

"Woah! Dude! TMI!"

"–Aces," Dean finished. He stopped and cast a sly glance at his brother before deciding enough was enough and simply looked back at the road, radiating an infuriating kind of smugness that Sam picked up on all too easily.

Sam just sighed, letting his head fall back into the corner of the headrest, watching the roadside whiz past. It was silent for a long time. Presently he began to smile slyly. Then he straightened his face and looked at Dean.

"Hey… um…" He cleared his throat. "Can you hear that?" he asked seriously. Dean's eyes flicked from side to side as he listened.

"What?"

"That… kind of… Is that a rattling noise?" he asked, confused.

"What rattling noise?" Dean asked, unsure.

"No, no, it must just be me. No, forget it," he said easily.

Dean spared him a glance, then put his eyes back to the road.

"Nice try Sam," he said slowly. "I'm not going for it."

Sam didn't reply, and it was two miles of silence before Dean darted a few shifty glances his way.

"Seriously, you heard a rattling noise?"

-------------------------------------------------

Dean pulled the car up at the kerb, killing the engine and climbing out.

"So this is Grand Rapids, Michigan," he said to himself, looking round as Sam's door squeaked open. "Looks normal enough," he offered, taking in the pavements full of busy people, the hustle of a typical Tuesday afternoon, the spindly sun through tall trees. "Remind me, what's actually supposed to be going on around here?"

"Ah…" Sam pulled out his notebook and began flipping through the pages. "Seven people so far… They… ah… told everyone they weren't them, then got into some kind of argument or fight and they were dead by the end of it." He shrugged, looking up at his brother. "What are you thinking?"

"Possession? Would explain why they think they're not who they look like," he hazarded.

"Are we talking demons?"

"Since when do demons take the time to send people nuts before they finish the job?" Dean reasoned. "Naw… Maybe something… something working by itself, targeting certain people. They have to be connected somehow. Where do we start?"

"Well the most recent one might be a fresher trail," Sam said optimistically. "George Fudly, twenty-eight, lived on somewhere called… Division Avenue," he said, looking up and around. He ducked his head and shoulders back in through the car window and pulled out a map. "Is this the 131?"

"Yeah," Dean said, looking up and down the busy road.

"Then… Oh, look at this," Sam grinned, looking up at his brother across the car.

"What?"

"Division Avenue is right next to Winchester Place," he grinned.

"Great," Dean said sarcastically. "If we're really lucky, we'll find Salma Hayek's Alley."

"Or Jessica Simpson's Patch," Sam chuckled.

"As long as it's not Dawson's Creek," Dean shivered, a disgusted look on his face.

"Come on, man. What's wrong with Dawson's Creek? Jessica used to love watching that show."

"Ugh! It's like… Ugh!" Dean shuddered again. "It's like that little fabric softener teddy bear. Oooh, just gives me nightmares," he said, a look of complete distaste on his face. He shook himself abruptly. "Come on, let's find this stiff's apartment."

They left the car and started walking, taking in the easy, sunny afternoon.

"Hard to believe these people are turning into nut-jobs," Sam observed.

"Yeah well. Everyone's capable," Dean shrugged. Sam looked at him but decided not to dwell on it.

They stopped at an intersection and found Division Avenue ran both ways. Sam looked to his left.

"I'll take this way. You go that way," he said. "You got the address?"

"I got it. Call me if you find it first," Dean said, nodding to him and turning away.

Sam walked on, looking out for any helpful hints as to street numbers before looking up and around at the houses.

He walked slowly, finding it turn into blocks of residential apartments quite quickly, realising he might have to blag his way into a private building. Still, it was nothing he hadn't done before, he reasoned.

It was a good ten minutes before he stopped, noticing a residential postal box out near the pavement. He read the number, then pulled out the notebook and checked the address. He nodded to himself before walking to the lobby and pushing the door open easily.

He walked in, surprised to find it open and unmanned. He shrugged, walking to the lifts. He pressed the button and waited. Two minutes of silent appraisal of the lobby later, Sam was inside the lift and shooting up to the sixth floor. He walked out, looking up and down the corridor, finding it oddly quiet. There were no sounds of movement from behind the apartment doors he passed, no loud conversation, no children being children. It was just deathly quiet.

He stopped at apartment twelve and looked at the doorknob. He took a quick look round lest someone had silently appeared somewhere in the hallway, then put his hand out and tried it.

It was open. He swung the door in slowly, walking in and closing it behind him. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, speed-dialling Dean's phone.

He walked over to the table in front of him, a small, rectangular affair littered with keys, coins and Post-It notes. He began rifling through them as Dean's line clicked.

"Sam?"

"Dean. Found his place, turn round and come back."

"You there now?"

"I am, the place is real quiet. It's almost spooky," he admitted, looking up toward the bedroom beyond.

"Well keep a sharp eye out," Dean said darkly. There was a ruffling noise over the phone and Sam waited for it to clear. "Is that a three or an eight?" he heard Dean say, mostly muffled, and frowned.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, hang on," he said, and then material was swept over the phone again. "With a 'y', not an 'i-e'… Got it. Mmm-hmm. I might just do that, thanks," he heard Dean said suavely, and then material moved again. "Sam? I'm coming. And I bring coffee."

"Dude, we're supposed to be looking for–"

"Hey, I've just been driving for nearly three hours, Sam. I need caffeine if you expect me to think."

"Alright," he sighed, "whatever. Just get up here." He cut the line and looked around, walking to the bedroom. Ten minutes spent looking through stacks of magazines, empty pizza boxes and assorted post did nothing to suggest George Fudly was anything but an unfortunate victim of unlucky surnames.

Sam got up from the bed and headed toward the kitchen.

Suddenly an arm appeared round the frame, grabbing for his neck. It squeezed hard and he felt fingernails breaking the skin.

"Get out of my apartment!" came a female shriek.

Sam's hands scrabbled at the grip, shocked at its strength if this was a woman.

He was pushed and stumbled over, falling to his back. The thing still clutched onto his neck, making him gasp for air. He stared up into the seething, contorted face of what looked like an older woman.

"Get out! Get out!" she wailed at him. He struggled and grunted at her, desperate to get her fingers out of his windpipe.

But he was losing air. Dark blotches appeared before his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

The woman unexpectedly wrenched her grip from him. She disappeared.

Sam dragged in air, coughing on the harsh reality of being able to breathe. He heard struggling and thumping, and then it all went quiet.

"Sam? Sammy?" Dean said urgently, appearing over him and grabbing his hands, pulling them away from his neck. "Let me see," he growled, finding only a few bloody punctures and wiping at the blood to check how deep they went. "Bitch," he spat, putting his hands to his shirt and hauling him up to sit. He grabbed Sam's head in his hands, watching him breathe. "You alright? Anything broken?"

"N-no," he managed, coughing again, and Dean let go of his head, leaning back and propping an arm on his raised knee, shaking his head.

"Goddamn, Sammy. I leave you for five minutes and some whacked-out woman has you nearly out cold," he breathed darkly.

"She was–" _cough­_ "–really strong," he protested, looking around him. "Where is she?"

Dean got up slowly, walking back to the woman now insensate on the carpet.

"You _hit_ her?" Sam said indignantly.

"Only after she tried the People's Elbow on me," Dean said pointedly. "Don't worry, she earned it."

"We'd better call the police," Sam said, getting his feet under him, massaging his sticky throat.

"Looks that way," Dean said, his eyes wandering over the woman slowly.

He shook his head as if to wash his hands of it, and walked away, back to the small table by the front door. He closed the door and looked at the two coffee cups sat on the table. He picked them up one by one, taking off the lids and handing one to Sam. Then he pulled out his phone and dialled.

-------------------------------------------------

Dean got up from the chair in the hallway, looking around the police station and starting to pace. His phone began to ring and he found it quickly.

"Yeah."

"Dean? It's me. They're done questioning me, I'll meet you out front in five minutes. I have some very interesting news on the crazy woman, too," he said smugly.

"It's about time," Dean grunted, then cut the line and put his phone back in his pocket. He didn't even spare the interior of the police station a glance as he walked out quickly, pushing through the tall glass doors and finding himself on the steps. He walked down slowly, looking around.

A few minutes later Sam appeared on the steps, walking down and stopping behind him.

"So, get this," he said loudly, and Dean pretended he hadn't just jumped in surprise.

"Amaze me," he managed.

"Mrs Fran Fudly says–"

"Fran? Fudly?" Dean interrupted, incredulous. Sam grinned.

"I know, I know, just listen," he said quickly, and Dean closed his mouth with a pout. "Anyway, Mrs Fran Fudly insists she is none other than her son _George_ Fudly, and someone has to help him."

Dean looked at him. Just looked.

Then he cleared his throat, looking around, thinking. At last he looked at his younger brother.

"So it's not possession, it's body-swapping," he guessed.

"Her son's dead," Sam pointed out.

"Yeah, and Old Mother Freaky's hanging round George's apartment, going nuts, attacking strange people, telling everyone she's George. I'm willing to bet George's mom was the one who was in George when he died. How did he die again?" he asked suddenly.

"Ah… Tried to take on a traffic cop and got shot," he said apologetically.

"Well there you go. They got swapped, he found he was trapped in his mom, went nuts and picked a fight with the wrong cop. End of story," he nodded confidently.

"So… Fran Fudly is her son George?"

"I guess so. All we have to do now is find out who, what, or why these two apparently switched bodies," he shrugged, "and if the same thing happened to the other six people."

"Then we need to look up the other victims, too," Sam concluded.

"Yeah. We'll take a few each, how's that?" he asked, putting his hand out. Sam pulled out his notes and looked through them quickly, taking a page with half a list on it and yanking it from the book. He handed them over. "Right. While we're checking over the dead loonies, I'll put in a few phone calls too."

"Phone calls?" Sam prompted.

"You never know, Bobby might have an idea about all this," he shrugged. "Might get some info on it and save us some time."

"Good idea. Then we have to find somewhere to sleep tonight," he said.

"Deal," he nodded, "I'm going to find my car. I can't believe I left her at some strange kerb to wait for your sorry ass to get out of a police station," he teased, and Sam just pushed him away.

"Make sure it's close-by," Sam said suddenly.

"What?"

"Well I'm not riding in that car if it's gonna keep making that rattling noise," he said innocently.

Dean's eyes twitched from left to right anxiously.

"Seriously? You really – like, there's really a rattling noise?" he asked, unsure.

Sam made sure his face did not give the slightest indication of his real feelings of amusement. He just shrugged innocently. "I'm just surprised you've never heard it, man."

Dean just nodded slowly, thinking this over, and Sam risked a secret cheeky smile at his expense.

"You ah… you get started, and I'll ah… I'll do the same and call Bobby – then find us somewhere to sleep," Dean said, pre-occupied, lifting a hand to scratch his head as he turned away from Sam.

Sam grinned, watching him walk off down the street. He put his hands up to his throat, still feeling the bruising every time he swallowed. He rubbed his head, feeling a throbbing ache start over his eyes. He sighed, rubbed his hands together, and pulled out his notebook, checking the address of the next victim.

-------------------------------------------------

"And you're sure he was fine till then?" Dean asked the girl, watching her stare longingly at the picture next to her armchair.

"Yeah… I mean, he had a few problems, but doesn't everyone?" she asked, looking back at Dean. He looked away from her haunted eyes quickly, the ones that begged him to say that there had been a terrible mistake and her boyfriend was coming back some time soon.

"Absolutely," he managed, then leaned forward, running a hand through his hair. "Look, Chrissy, thanks for talking to me. Sorry to barge in here like this," he said, looking back at her apologetically.

"No, no, it's fine," she said miserably. "I never knew you guys got on so well at the garage," she offered. She paused, thinking.

"Bill never talked about the other grease monkeys – until he went completely mad and said he was that ass at work, Calvin," she added flippantly.

"Well, that was Bill," he said reassuringly. "I should go," he said quietly, getting to his feet, and Chrissy stood quickly.

"Well… If you wanted to… If you want to look through his stuff, I mean… What with his brother being out of town, and you being his friend and all…"

"Thanks, but… Wouldn't seem right," he said. "Listen, thanks for seeing me. I know it must be rough."

"Everyone says that," she said gently. "No-one really knows though." She looked up at him with large, brown eyes but he avoided her gaze suddenly. "But… I think you do." She paused, watching him resist the urge to look at her. "Who did you lose?"

He found her gaze guiltily. "Aww, look, I've been here too long, and you're upset cos everyone's doing the '_it'll be alright cos time heals_' thing, and–"

"See? Everyone _else_ says that. You don't believe them, do you?" she asked accusingly.

He paused and thought about it. "No, I don't," he said firmly. "Sure, you think about people you've lost and eventually you think it hurts less. That's not healing, that's just acceptance," he pointed out stubbornly.

She smiled. "Hey. Thanks for being the first one who didn't try to hug me and make me cry, cos '_it's good for me_'," she said tartly.

"Don't listen to that shit. You do what you want," he said harshly. He paused, wetting his lips and shaking off the sudden urge to lecture someone. She waited, apparently interested. "Seriously, you do what you want. Me? I play music very, very loud," he smiled.

She almost giggled. "Good for you," she winked.

"Ok, I'm gone," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently. "Break some stuff, scream at people, kick doors, and you'll feel better when you've got comfortable with your discomfort," he nodded.

"Thanks," she said seriously. He turned and walked to the front door.

"No problem," he allowed, and she offered him a cheery smile before she let him out of the door, closing it slowly behind him.

He pulled on his black jacket, shrugging into it and huffing to himself.

"Well thanks Bill, you were about as useful as a sugar-free de-caff," he tutted. "Please tell me Sam's having more luck."

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"India? Wow," Sam gushed, grinning at the young boy. "Bet he brought back some really cool stuff, huh?"

"Some," the boy allowed, picking up the Optimus Prime from the coffee table and pulling at the wheels slowly.

"Look, Caleb, I know you must be upset still," Sam said gently, leaning forward in the chair. "But I'm just trying to find out why your father did what he did. Maybe I can stop other people doing it too."

"He was just… angry," the seven year old shrugged. "Just really really angry."

"Yeah, I suppose he must have been," he said. "Do you remember him saying anything strange? Or just something he would never say? Before that day?"

"He told Mama his name was Carl Smeddall and Mama was next," he shrugged.

"He said his name was what?" Sam asked gently, affecting bemusement.

"Carl Smeddall," Caleb said. "Weird."

"Is that a friend of your daddy's? Or your uncle's?" Sam asked softly. The boy looked at him.

"Nope. Never heard of him before," he said.

"Right, well… thanks," he said, hearing the sounds of his mother approaching from the kitchen. She walked in, folding an apron and looking at them both.

"Are you boys having fun?" she smiled gamely. "It's so nice of you to check up on him," she said over her son's head. "He's been out of sorts since his daddy and uncle died."

"I can imagine, Mrs Peppler," he said soothingly, getting to his feet. "He seems to be coping quite well, under the circumstances."

"Yeah. Mommy's little trooper," she said a little sadly, tousling the small boy's hair.

"Well I should be going," Sam said. "Thanks for letting me talk to him, Mrs Peppler."

"No, really, thanks," she said, showing him to the door. "It's good of the school to send you round."

"It's my job," he smiled.

"Thanks anyway."

She let him out of the front door and he sighed, walking down the path and pulling out his phone. He pressed the speed-dial for his brother and waited as it began to ring.

"Yeah," Dean's voice said abruptly.

"Hey, you at the car?" Sam asked.

"Yeah."

"You got Dad's journal?"

"What do you know?" Dean asked quickly, and Sam could hear squeaks of doors and clicks of gloveboxes down the line.

"I've tried all three. The first two were college roommates, both boys died within a week, but get this – they claimed they were _each other_," he stressed.

"Well then I'm definite on this body-swapping thing," Dean replied firmly.

"Sounds like it, unless it was the unfunniest prank since you put itching powder in my shorts."

"Aw come on, that was hilarious," Dean grinned. "Seriously though, the first girl on the list says her boyfriend and some guy at work both died saying they were each other, too. So we're confirmed for… four of them, anyway. Which still doesn't help us work out how this is happening."

"Wait Dean, there's more," Sam said quickly. "I just saw a little boy. He says his dad Derek said he was called Carl Smeddall – but the other dead guy was called Richard," he said. "Richard's his uncle, he died too, but saying he was his dad Derek. So the question is: who is this other random Carl Smeddall guy?"

"Carl Smeddall," Dean pondered. "I've just come from the second girl on my list. She said her sister told her she was someone called Cars, not the other dead girl, Vanessa. You think this could be the same thing, just misheard?"

"I don't know, could be," he shrugged. "If it is, it could mean it's something jumping from person to person."

"Hang on," he said, and Sam heard shuffling and doors creaking down the phone. "Look, it's going to take me a while to page through the entire journal for anything useful. If you're done, get us food. I'll call Bobby with this Carl and Cars thing and find somewhere to sleep."

"Good plan," Sam nodded down the phone. He stopped and looked around. "What do you want to eat?"

"Dude, right now I'd eat the Impala if you put enough ketchup on her," he admitted. "I don't remember the last time I smelt anything edible."

"Alright, keep your shirt on," Sam grinned. "Call me when we have a hotel. I'll organise munchies." He cut the line and put the phone back in his pocket, looking around and smiling to himself. "Solid lead, Dad's journal and Bobby's help too? This is going to be _easy_."


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

"Bobby, hey," Dean said cheerfully, hearing the familiar gruff greeting.

"Sam?" he asked, surprised.

"No, Dean," he smiled.

"Dean? Damn, it's good to hear from you," he replied, and the grin in his voice was unmistakeable. "How're you boys doing?"

"Not bad," Dean admitted with a smile. "Hey listen, sorry to dump on you like this – again – but we're in… ah… Michigan," he said, wondering if his sudden headache had been caused by the woman's head colliding with his earlier. "We've run into something interesting."

"Zombies?" Bobby chuckled.

"Boring."

"Vampires?"

"That's old news, man," he grinned, rubbing his temple slowly in a vain attempt to ease the ache.

"Then what?"

"People swapping bodies."

"No shit?"

"No shit," Dean confirmed. "Eight people have gone whacko and seven have died. The relatives of five of them have said the same thing: they've gone nuts and either killed or nearly killed someone trying to convince them that they're not who they look like. We reckon they've been swapped over."

"And you're sure about this?" Bobby asked sceptically. "Don't want to piss on your fireworks, but I've never actually seen anyone swapped."

"I know, it's weird," Dean allowed, then shook his head. "But what isn't these days? We've been interviewing these relatives and friends, man, and I've got to say it's starting to look like full-on Tom Hanks-style situations," he added.

"So what about the others? You said that was five," Bobby said, oddly eager.

"Sam talked to this kid, his dad and uncle both went nuts. His uncle was same as the others, saying he was the dad, but his father said he was someone called Carl Smeddall," he said.

"And this Carl isn't someone else who's _about_ to go nuts?" Bobby hazarded.

"We don't know. But one of the girls I spoke to said her sister reckoned she was someone called Cars. We thought it might be the same name, just misheard. What do you think?"

"Hmm… Let me do some digging," Bobby said. "So that's… seven. Where's the last one?"

"The most recent one: mother Fran and son George. George went nuts and died last week, but his mother's still very much alive. She believes she's actually George and almost beat a tattoo out of Sammy trying to convince him."

"Where is she now?"

"In the local police station while they figure out the nearest loony bin that can take her," he shrugged. "We just wondered if you had any idea where we could start looking for a cause."

"Well… Could be a few," Bobby replied slowly. "So… Facts. Are they all related by blood?"

"Only half of them."

"Right, so that's not it. All living together?"

"No."

"All living near each other?"

"No – two just worked together, two were brothers, two roomed together and two lived pretty much next door to each other."

"Oh," Bobby said, sounding disappointed.

"I'm thinking this Carl is pulling some strings, man," Dean interrupted.

"Yeah, if we only knew who he is," Bobby mused. "Or what he is."

"He could be something jumping from body to body," Dean offered. "I mean, these people didn't always live very closely, but they sure visited or had contact with each other every day. Maybe they're connected by sharing the same water at home or eating the same Cheesy Puffs at work. Maybe this Carl is getting a body, staking everyone out around him and jumping into a new one when he feels like it."

"Good point. This mother that attacked Sam, any signs of spirits there?"

"None. We did a full sweep before the Doughnut Department arrived. No signs of possession, no traces of spirits, zippo," he replied. "That's why I'm calling you."

"I see," Bobby said slowly. "Well I'll take a look for you, give you a call back if I can dig anything up. Just be careful, you two," he said firmly.

"Hey, this is me," Dean grinned. "Thanks, Bobby."

"No sweat. Next time though, you two just get down here and crack open a few beers with this old man, you hear me? It's about time the three of us just shared some rotgut alcohol and didn't have to worry about demons, ghosts or tricksters. Ok?"

"Gotcha," Dean replied. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet," Bobby smiled, and the line was cut.

Dean sighed, put the phone in his pocket, and looked up and around. He leaned off the car and walked around the front, grabbing his duffle from the bonnet and walking to the motel entrance.

He walked in and looked around, finding the front desk and wandering over.

"Hi," he said politely, the girl looking up immediately. She simply looked down again, unmoved, and Dean suddenly felt affronted at her reaction. Then he chided himself for being vain and cleared his throat. "I'd like a room please, if it's not too much trouble," he tried again.

She looked up and thought for a second.

"Ok, Mister…?"

"Joe. Joe Elliott," he supplied.

"Just you?" she asked.

"Me and my brother," he said. She just looked at him.

"Your brother?" she prompted.

"Yeah," he said innocently, "my brother."

"Mr Elliott, we don't rent rooms by the hour," she said firmly. "And we certainly don't rent same-sex rooms unless… there's… some…" Her voice tailed off as her confidence left her.

He realised his face must have looked astounded, as suddenly she was putting her hands up in surrender, waving quickly.

"Oh! I'm sorry! What a mistake – sorry," she said hurriedly. "It's just that… No, no, forget it," she added hastily.

He was trying to twist his face into some semblance of something he had previously used to win at poker, but for some reason he was conscious of his face looking far more pouty and distressed than he would have liked.

"Look, Mr Elliott – Joe. Can I call you Joe?" she asked soothingly, putting out a hand and stroking his arm suddenly. He watched her hand move down his arm, surprised, then blinked at her.

"Ah… yeah," he said, lost.

"Joe, let me get you a nice room for you and your brother, and the first night will be on the management. How does that sound to you?" she said comfortingly.

"Um… great," he managed, confused. "I'll call my brother so he knows which room," he added.

"Good. Let's just get these forms filled out, shall we?" she said, dazzling him with her smile. He blinked.

"Ok."

"Tell you what, let me help you with those," she said, giving his arm a final stroke before picking up the pen.

Dean just watched, completely lost but willing to let it go. It was simply less work that way.

-------------------------------------------------

Sam's phone rang and he transferred the pizza box in his hands to his left one, whipping it out as he walked. "Dean?"

"Got us a room. Kinda weird, but we got a night for free," Dean's voice told him. Except it wasn't as gravelly as he remembered.

"Cool," he said curtly. "I'm on the way now – what's the address?"

"65 28th Street," Dean said, "The Travelodge, room 379."

"Got it. See you in ten," he said, putting the phone away. As he looked up he realised the girl walking toward him down the street was giving him a shy smile. He smiled back, surprised but secretly quite impressed: she was a stunner.

As they passed on the street she caught his eye again. "Hi," she said brightly, continuing on.

Sam stopped, caught completely off-guard, and then collected himself and carried on walking, shaking his head. Ten minutes later and he was walking into the lobby of the Travelodge, looking around.

"Hello," the receptionist said with a broad smile. "Anything I can do for_you_, sir?"

Sam looked behind him first, unsure why she was suddenly so cheerful – and pleased to see him. He looked back round at her to find her eyes sliding over his jacket slowly.

"Uh… yeah, I'm looking for room 379? My brother's in there," he said.

"Ah,_you're_ the brother," she said, looking him up and down appreciatively. "Hmm."

Sam just looked back at her, wondering why she appeared to enjoy watching him.

"This way," she said. "I'll take you there myself."

"Oh no, that's fine," he said quickly, feeling his skin prickle in sudden fright. "Despite what my brother may have told you, I'm not completely useless." He fought down the feeling, surprised at himself, considering what monsters and horrors he had faced with less physical fear before.

"I'm sure you're not," she said warmly, arching an eyebrow at him.

That did it.

"Ok, fine, er, thanks," he said hastily. He backed away swiftly and resisted the urge to run for the lifts behind him.

He pressed the button a few hundred times in his anxiety, forcing himself to calm down. He had managed to control his sudden unexplained panic for the second time in as many minutes before the lift opened and he stepped in. He pressed three and watched the doors close.

He shook his head, wondering why he was so spooked. He squeezed his eyes shut, blowing out a sigh before the lift stopped.

He opened his eyes and walked out, following the signs to 379 and shifting the pizza box to his left hand again before knocking on the door.

After a long minute the door opened swiftly and Sam looked up into his own eyes.

"Yeah, very funny Dean," he accused, looking at his reflection in some giant mirror.

But his reflection looked horrified, something he clearly was not feeling. Creeping fear gripped Sam as he noted that the reflection was not holding onto a large brown pizza box, either. He felt his fingers tighten on the cardboard as his reflection reached out a hand and grasped his arm firmly, as if feeling to see if it were real.

Sam watched the _other_ Sam stare back at him. It was silent for a long moment.

And then the _other_ Sam opened his mouth.

"_Sonuvabitch_!" he blurted, dragging him into the hotel room.


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

"What the hell!" the _other_ Sam protested, slamming the door behind Sam.

Sam just stared at the other him, the one standing right in front of him.

_He's exactly like me! An exact copy!_ he gawped.

The now very _short_ hair on the back of his neck stood up in fear swiftly. He dodged round the other Sam and found a mirror, slamming the pizza box down and his hands on the desk to look into it at close range.

"That's just… not right," he managed, seeing Dean's face look back at him, and even worse, Dean's mouth make the words right along with him as he spoke. "Unholy shit!"

"You're damn right!" came the angry retort from behind him.

Sam looked away from the mirror and looked at the other Sam.

_That's not _another _Sam – that's me!_ he realised in a panic. _No, that's Dean! Looking like me! And I look like him!_ He paused, speechless and thoughtless for a long second. _That explains the girl on the street._ Then:_We are so screwed!_

He stared at his brother. He was standing looking at his hands – which were actually Sam's hands, he corrected himself – and looking very, very petulant.

"This ain't fair! What the hell?" he said, looking up and pinning his younger brother with an accusing look.

"I – I really – uh – I just don't –" Sam stammered, lost by the sight of himself talking back at him.

"No – seriously – _what the hell_?" Dean demanded. "What's causing this? Why am I in _your_sorry ass?" he cried plaintively – in Sam's voice.

Sam couldn't help it – he laughed. As soon as he started, he couldn't stop. Dean closed his mouth and fumed at him. Sam couldn't care – the look of ultimate suffering on his older brother – who was now wearing Sam's face – was too much after the day he had had, and he simply let it out in long, strangely gravelly guffaws.

"Am I the only one who thinks this is all eff'd up?" Dean tried again, and Sam just collapsed on a bed, laughing fit to burst.

Dean blew out a long breath, walked to the other bed, and sat down with a_flump_. He simply watched his younger brother, in _his_ own body, control his laughter and sit up on the bed.

He looked at him and they stared at each other, wide-eyed, letting it sink in.

"Stop staring at me," Dean said suddenly.

"You're me, dude," Sam reasoned.

"So stop staring at you! I'm in here, not you! So you're staring at _me_!" he pointed out. Sam made himself look down, noticing the jeans on the legs that weren't his but did what he told them. In a detached way he took in the affected rips in the denim and frowned.

"These are your jeans," he muttered.

"You're me! I was wearing my own goddamn jeans, Sammy, so now _you're_ wearing 'em!" Dean blurted, frustration adding to his volume.

Sam waved his hands up quickly; a ring on his right hand caught his eye and hammered home the fact that they were in fact Dean's hands. Sam made himself stay focused.

"Alright! I get it!" he managed quickly. "Calm down."

He made the mistake of looking up, and they stared at each other for another minute. Sam put a hand up slowly, realised again that it was Dean's hand, and hesitated. Then he stretched it out to touch his own face, currently on Dean and looking extremely suspicious.

His finger almost connected with the face on Dean. But Dean flinched and slapped his hand away smartly.

"Don't," he warned and Sam cleared the throat he was using, pulling the hand back quickly.

"You know what's really weird?" Sam said presently.

"Other than the fact that we've swapped bodies?" he said sarcastically.

"Other than that," he said seriously. They continued to stare.

"What?" Dean asked eventually.

Sam paused, thinking how to phrase it. "Since we were kids… I've always wondered what it was like to be you, man. And now… now I know."

"Sam, don't start," he warned.

"No, all I'm saying is… It's my turn to be the 'handsome one'," he said, lifting his hands to perform cute little air quotes. "And you can be the intelligent, pansy-ass haired college kid," he grinned.

"Don't make me kick your ass," Dean fumed, and Sam's grin dropped.

"Ok, I'm joking," he said quickly, turning his hands out in surrender. "Look, we're not so bad off, you know? All we have to do is figure this out and get put back. It'll be fine."

"Oh yeah? Fine how?" Dean demanded angrily. "We have no idea where to start looking, Sam!"

Dean's phone started to ring and he glowered at his brother, before Sam realised it was in the jeans _he_ had on and pulled it free of Dean's jeans that he was wearing. He tossed it at his brother, who caught it and pressed the button quickly.

"Yeah, this is Dean," he said shortly.

"Dean! It's Bobby," he said.

"Bobby! Thank God!" he breathed.

"You alright?"

"No! No I'm not alright! I've fallen into the ninth circle of Hell–"

Sam snatched the phone from him irritably but Dean made a grab to get it back. Sam turned his body to block him, and Dean launched himself at his back.

"Bobby! I'll call back!" Sam said quickly, tossing the phone onto the bed.

They struggled and fought for the phone, Dean grabbing him in a bear hug that wasn't really as effective as it would have been with his own arms. Sam found it much easier to shake him off than he expected, but Dean would not give up. He grabbed his arm, he snaked under his chest, he grappled with his elbow, until eventually Sam managed to wrench his brother off him with his knee. Dean was propelled to the floor smartly, cursing and rolling to his feet.

"_Gimme my phone!_" Dean seethed, now on Sam's feet and throwing himself at him again.

They wrestled and strained, struggled and tugged, until at last Sam had his arms – or rather, Dean's arms – round his brother's neck. He squeezed and Dean paused for breath.

"_Get off me_!" Dean roared.

"Wait!" Sam pleaded. "Dean, listen to me," he added quickly. "What are we fighting about? Really?" He felt Dean hesitate and knew he had won. "See? Nothing! This must be how it works! We're ready to go four rounds here and we have no idea why! You see?"

There was a long silence. Eventually, Dean reached up and patted Sam's arm round his neck.

"Alright, you win. Let me go."

Sam released his neck from the potential sleeper hold, and Dean backed away, looking horrified.

"You alright?" Sam dared. Dean shuddered and wriggled his shoulders abruptly, flicking his arms out as if trying to shake off a deluge of water.

"I'm fan-friggin'-tastic, Sam," he growled sarcastically. "This is just – ugh!" he shivered, another shudder running through him as he shook his arms again.

"Look, we have to call Bobby back and find out how to put this right," Sam said. Dean didn't appear to hear him, still intent on finding out if shaking himself would somehow rid himself of Sam's body. "Right?" Sam prompted. "Right?" He huffed at his oblivious brother. "Dean!"

"Yeah!" he said quickly, looking at him and making himself stop. "Yeah, I know. Sorry, man," he added awkwardly.

"Fine." He turned and found Dean's phone, pressing Bobby's speed-dial and clearing his throat. "Hey Bobby, sorry about that."

"Sam? What's in the Sam Hill's going on with you two?" Bobby demanded immediately.

"Ah… We have a slight problem," he said.

"Oh, Dean, sorry," he said quickly, recognising the voice.

"No, it's ah… I'm Sam," he said.

"Really? Then you sure sound like –"

"Yeah, that's our problem," Sam said slowly. "We've been jumped, Bobby. We've been swapped."

"Well… Shit," came Bobby's reply.

-------------------------------------------------

Sam talked to Bobby at great length while Dean paced the room. He stopped at the curtains, looking out. He walked back to the coffee on the table, taking a swig. He helped himself to the now very cold pizza on the table too, secretly quite glad that Sam had spurned it – leaving more for him – but also worried his brother hadn't eaten. He walked backwards and forwards, watching the feet that were moving him around without actually being his. He could feel the anger building up, could feel the helplessness and frustration.

He didn't pause in his pacing but looked over at his younger brother. His now shorter, wider, stockier, blonder younger brother.

He stopped pacing, his head tilting to one side slowly as he took a good, very long look at Sam. Or rather, himself.

_Never actually seen me before,_ he thought grumpily. _Well, not like you can see other people. And definitely not like they can see you._ He shook his head, turning and pacing again, biting his – Sam's – lip and trying to think back over every tiny thing they had done since they had arrived in Grand Rapids, Michigan.

"Ok, thanks Bobby," Sam said, sounding relieved in a voice that made Dean's skin creep, knowing it was his own. He stopped pacing and watched Sam put the cell phone down on the bed next to him.

"Well?"

"Blood," Sam said, putting a hand up to his neck, then realising it was no longer his. "Ah – your neck. The one that – that used to be mine," he added gingerly.

Dean put a hand up and touched the throat under the fingers that weren't his but did as they were told, feeling the semi-scabbed marks. "Where that bitch tried to strangle you?" he asked.

"Yeah. Whatever she did, she got something into the blood. And Bobby thinks it has to be shared with someone who has the same blood type," he added quietly. "That's why it seems to jump between family members or only certain friends."

"I touched your neck," Dean realised, his mouth hanging slightly open. "You were bleeding, and I touched your neck. Is that it?" he asked, looking back at Sam.

"Seems that way. Do you have any–. Oh," he said suddenly, stopping and raising his hands to look at them. "Yeah. You've got a cut here on your left palm, that's how it got in," he said, looking up at Dean and showing him his hand. Dean scowled.

"Yeah, thanks. Up until an hour ago that was _my_ hand, remember?" He huffed, looking round the room slowly as he collected his thoughts. Those, at least, were still his. "How do we reverse it?"

"Bobby's working on it. But in the meantime, we have to be careful not to start going psycho."

"Great! Well that's just – just friggin' great!" he shouted, "Of all the people I had to get swapped with, it had to be you!" he continued, anguished.

"I don't see the problem here, man," Sam said carefully, standing and watching his brother start to pace again. The way Dean was working himself up was starting to worry him.

"You don't see the problem!" Dean exploded, turning on him. "The problem is you're supposed to be my younger brother! You know, we don't exactly live normal lives – but at least three things were for definite: I'm the older one, you're the little college boy, and we kill undead things before they get people! And now look, it's all friggin' _screwed_!" he roared.

Sam walked over but Dean's hands shot up quickly in an all-too-familiar defensive manoeuvre. Sam froze and then took a step back slowly.

"Look, all I'm saying is, there's a way out of this, and all we have to do is keep calm until we find it, ok?" he said soothingly.

"I'm not a kid, Sam!" he shouted angrily.

"I know! Believe me, I know," he said warily. "Look… Just let it go, man. Why are you so angry?"

Dean huffed and turned away from him, walking away to the window and looking out. He was silent for a long moment, and Sam watched him wrestle with something. Finally he cast him a furtive glance before looking back out of the window.

"Cos if I hadn't left you alone, she wouldn't have hurt you. And then we wouldn't be in this mess."

"Dean…" Sam gave up, huffing and sitting on the bed nearest him. "When are you going to stop this?"

"Stop what?" he demanded, looking at him.

"_I'm_ not a kid either. Don't think you have to watch me every time I take a step, I won't break," he said a little testily. Dean just looked at him for a long moment, then back out of the window. But all his anger seemed to have drained away.

"So we just wait for Bobby to call back, or what?" he asked eventually, in a small voice.

"Yeah. Look, it's not even four o'clock yet. Perhaps if you sat down, maybe got a few hours' rest, you'd feel better," Sam ventured.

"I can't sleep," he admitted.

"Why?"

"I have another problem," he said, avoiding Sam's gaze admirably.

"What's what?"

"I… ah… I need the toilet," he confessed.

"What are you, three?" Sam teased. "Just go."

"Sam!" he blurted plaintively. "You're my brother and we grew up together, but I ain't never touching another man's–"

"You have a point," Sam said quickly. He thought for a long moment. "Well, I'm sorry man, but when I need to go, I'm just going," he shrugged.

"Sam!" he protested, pinning him with a tortured look.

"Dean, it's called 'necessary'!" he shot back. "Honestly, get over it!"

"Fine! Just – when you _do_ go, just don't look," he said firmly. Sam just stared at him, incredulity written on his – Dean's – face. "Cos _I_ sure as hell won't." He turned and marched into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Sam collapsed backwards on the bed, closing Dean's eyes that he was currently using, rubbing them generously. Dean's phone started to ring again.

"Thank God," Sam breathed, uncomfortable with sounding exactly like his brother. He sat up, reaching for the phone.

"Oh _man_!" Dean cried, tortured, from behind the bathroom door. "Gaaah! When we find out who caused all this, I am seriously gonna kick his thievin' ass!" he wailed.

"Hey Bobby," Sam said politely down the phone.

"Which one are you?" Bobby asked.

"Sam. Did you find anything?"

"Oh this is just wrong!" Dean protested from the bathroom.

"Yeah, I've got some good news, and I've got some bad news," Bobby continued, oblivious.

"What's the good news?" Sam hazarded.

"Oh Je­_sus_, that is something I _never_ wanted to see in this lifetime!" Dean wailed.

"Hang on Bobby," Sam said irritably, then pressed the phone to his adopted chest to cover it, turning to look over at the bathroom door. "Dude! Don't be such a girl!" he shouted clearly. Then he sniffed and lifted the phone back to his face. "So, ah, you were saying?"

"Yeah… I was saying the good news is, all you need to do is get some blood from the woman, and meet me. I've got something here that will fix all of you," he said.

Sam closed his eyes and concentrated on the phone, pinching the bridge of his nose and ignoring the grumbling coming from the bathroom door. "And what's the bad news?"

"It has to be before midnight tonight," Bobby replied.


	5. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

They headed out to the car. Sam was quietly disappointed: Dean would not listen to him and let _him_ drive on the grounds that he was not still freaking out over having to do something as easy as go to the toilet.

Instead, Dean drove them back to the police station and brought the Impala to a stop with a careless lurch, earning him a reproachful look from Sam.

"Don't look at me like that, Sam," he said, then thought about it. "You know, I'm really not liking this, watching my own face do stuff back at me. It's just not right," he said.

"I know," Sam commiserated. "Come on, we have to find that Fran Fudly and get some blood, or we're going to be stuck like this."

"Screw that," Dean said quickly, scrambling out of the car and locking it quickly.

They walked into the police station and found the front desk.

"Ah, hi, remember me?" Sam said quickly to the large desk sergeant on the counter. She looked up and then did a double-take.

"Why, I sure do," she smiled. "You came in with your younger brother this afternoon, right?"

"Oh!" Sam blurted, then turned to Dean and pulled on the jacket sleeve, yanking him over. "Yeah, this one," he said. "My little brother. Yeah, that's the one," he said firmly. Dean pulled the captured arm free with spirit, and she looked at him.

"Oh yes, poor boy got all scraped up," she said warmly. "You better now, honey?"

"I'm super," Dean growled. Except from Sam's throat it came out just plain grumpy. Her smile flickered but she rebuilt it quickly.

"Well then boys, what can I do for you?" she asked Sam alone. He cleared his throat, taking a cautious look around the lobby before answering.

"Well, we were just wondering what's going to happen to Mrs Fudly. I mean, we don't actually hold any grudges or anything, and we were kinda worried if she had any family to come get her or check on her," he said bravely.

"My, my, looks and compassion, eh?" she smiled. "But I'm sorry boys, I can't just let you in there. It's off-limits to civilians."

"Oh," Sam said, then looked at Dean. He was letting his attention wander round the small desk area, annoyed and not caring who saw it. The phone rang suddenly and the desk sergeant turned away from them to pick it up.

Sam immediately nudged his brother. "Dude, do the eyes thing," he hissed as quietly as he could.

"What?"

"Your –_my_ eyes! Make 'em go down at the corners," Sam hissed.

"Do what?"

"Just do it! She'll let us in if you look at her like your cat just died!"

"I don't know how to do any eye-"

"Come on!" Sam interrupted hastily, and the two of them started a furious hissing argument of insults and threats. Sam realised she was putting the phone down and hissed one last instruction: "Just make like someone stole your car!"

With that he stamped his foot down on his brother's to signal that the conversation was over. Dean flinched and yelped helplessly. It occurred to Sam rather abruptly that he was no longer wearing his usual Puma trainers, but some fantastically heavy biker boots, and had quite possibly just crushed one of his brother's toes. Or two.

"Now then boys," the desk sergeant said politely, turning back to beam at them.

"So is there a possibility we could see her?" Sam said quickly, fastening a hand round the arm Dean was controlling and squeezing it. Dean took the hint and clamped his mouth shut to stop himself whimpering in pain. His eyebrows – Sam's incredibly expressive eyebrows – bore the brunt of coping with the painful toe, but the desk sergeant appeared to take it as worry for Mrs Fudly.

"Aw, well…" She looked back at Dean, who managed to transfer all the pain in his toes to Sam's Oscar-winning eyebrows. He strained with every upper face muscle Sam had, hoping he looked pathetic.

_He so owes me for this,_ he thought vindictively.

"Well… seein' as you two boys are so cute and considerate," she said to herself, looking down at her notes. "She's in a room all by herself, we had to restrain her. I'll ask one of the boys to take you down," she winked.

"That's very kind of you," Sam said warmly, and she sighed.

"My pleasure," she said to herself, turning away and finding the Tannoy switches.

Sam let go of Dean's elbow. Dean immediately smacked his closed fist into his brother's chest with as much speed as he could muster over such a sort distance. Sam doubled over in surprise and pain until he nearly hit the desk. The sergeant looked up and he straightened quickly, smiling through the sharp pain.

She nodded to him and looked away, and Sam looked back at his now taller brother menacingly. Dean just raised his eyebrows and lifted his hand at him, performing a 'come on then' manoeuvre with his fingers. Sam just shook his head and turned away from him deliberately.

A tall dark officer approached them and offered to take them down to the cells. They walked down, making sure they were either side of the man, before they stopped in the off-limits part of the detention area.

Between Sam's reassuring smile and Dean's tortured face, they managed to persuade the officer to let all three of them into the cell. They stood in front of Mrs Fudly, watching her.

"Hi, er, Mrs Fudly?" Sam said cheerfully.

"It's George," she said flatly. "But that's ok, no-one's ever going to believe me," she added on a sigh.

The officer rolled his eyes.

"Look fellas, she's restrained and I've heard all this before. I'll be outside," he said. "If you need anything at all, just holler," he added, nodding to them both before stepping out and locking it.

The brothers watched him until he was well out of sight, then Sam turned back to Mrs Fudly determinedly.

"What if we told you… What if we told you we believed you," he said earnestly.

"Really? What, are you nuts too?" she smiled.

"No. I'm the one you tried to strangle this afternoon," Sam said clearly. She squinted at him, then looked over at Dean.

"Nah, that was _him_," she said. "He's still got the marks and everything."

"Exactly," Sam said heavily. She looked from one to the other swiftly. "See?"

"It got you too?" she asked.

"Look Mrs–" Dean began.

"George!" she insisted.

"Right – George," Dean corrected dismissively, moving toward the prisoner, "Whatever it was that swapped you with your old lady got us swapped too. Now we need your help to get us back home again," he continued harshly. Sam put a hand out and grasped his brother's taller shoulder, keeping him back from the man inside the woman.

"And why should I help you? I can't get swapped back, can I? My mother's dead, and no-one will believe me," George said bitterly. Sam sighed.

"Look, come with us. We might be able to do something for you," he said.

"Really?" George asked sceptically.

"We don't know that," Dean cut in swiftly.

"No, we don't," Sam admitted. "But we're willing to try. Will you help us?"

George sat looking round the cell for a full minute. Then he looked up at his wrists, carefully buckled into the restraints by his shoulders, and let himself sag abruptly.

"Fine. What have I got to lose?" he sighed.

"Thank you," Sam said, and George looked up at him.

"Just do me a favour," he said quietly.

"What's that?" Sam asked.

"Make sure I don't try and kill you again. I'm sorry about that – anger got a bit out of control," he said apologetically.

"Yeah, I see," Sam said, casting a sidelong glance at Dean before looking back at him.

-------------------------------------------------

Dean and Sam leapt over the fence and ran for the side door. Two minutes of cutting lines and jimmying locks proved that gaining entrance to a police station after dark really could be as easy as it looked in the movies.

They scrabbled and slipped their way through a restroom window, Dean shuddering in aversion to recent memories of toilets before Sam grabbed his shoulder and pushed him toward the door.

They walked out silently and down to George's cell, taking slightly longer than they had expected to get it open. But get it open they did, and it was a scant two minutes later that he was released and stealing along the silent hallway behind them, making their way back to the toilets and their windows.

They rounded the corner and found two policeman innocently chatting by a water cooler.

"Damn," Dean hissed, gesturing quickly for the other two to get back round the corner.

The two officers looked up and caught sight of Dean flapping two hands at Sam, and put their cups down hurriedly.

"You there!" the taller one called. "What are you doing there this time of night? It's off-limits to civilians."

Sam straightened and cleared his throat.

"Evening officers," he said quickly. "We're just looking for–"

"For the toilets," Dean interrupted, turning to look at them innocently.

"Oh, well, you just go that way–" the first officer began.

"Burt!" the second gasped, nudging his arm hastily, and he stopped, looking sheepish.

"Yeah, you're not supposed to be here," he said smartly. "So what _are_ you doing here?"

Dean pushed into Sam pointedly and then threw himself at the shorter officer. Sam stood back, unprepared. He and the other officer watched, side by side, as Dean and the policeman tussled on the floor.

"That your brother?" 'Burt' asked innocently.

"Yeah," Sam admitted on a resigned sigh.

"Man. Not much of a fighter, eh?" he commented, watching them roll around and vie for control.

"He's not himself today," Sam said conversationally, then shook his head as Dean took a punch to his nose. "Hey, be careful with that face!" he called at him.

"You're next – if you don't – help!" Dean shot back, then grabbed the policeman and smashed his head back against the tiles desperately.

"Right! Come quietly," Officer Burt said quickly, turning on Sam.

But something large suddenly swung round. Sam saw it from the corner of his eye and ducked. Burt was not so lucky.

A metal waiting room chair crashed into his shoulder and head. He was pushed to the floor in an instant, George throwing himself at him.

Sam wrenched him off quickly, knowing Burt was already unconscious. He looked over to see Dean getting to his feet, wiping his hands together and looking down at the two unconscious policemen.

"You two suck!" George accused them. Sam let him go, then simply turned for the toilets, and their exit.

-------------------------------------------------

George was pushed hurriedly into the back of the Impala and Dean drove hell for leather, glancing nervously at the clock that read nearly eleven.

"Where are we going?" he demanded shrilly.

"George, we're taking care of it. Now shut the hell up," Dean grunted, eyes on the road and his whole attention making sure nothing got in their way to Bobby and their rendez-vous.

"Everything's going to be fine," Sam said more quietly, turning in the passenger seat and looking at their charge. "Really. Just – please – don't distract him when he's driving. We don't want to have an accident."

George just closed his mouth, sitting back in the seat and making himself comfortable.

"There it is again," Sam said quietly, then pulled a tortured face and clamped his mouth shut.

Too late – Dean had already glanced at him.

"There_what_ is again?" he snapped.

"Nothing," he said quickly, judging it a bad time to test his brother's sense of humour.

"Seriously, what?" Dean asked.

"Nothing. Just drive."

It was silent, save the throaty roar of the engine, for a whole mile.

"Dude, can you hear a rattling sound?" Dean asked suddenly. "Cos I'm starting to think I can hear it too."

Sam just bit his – Dean's – lip and decided that, if they weren't trying to save their own asses from permanent swappage, he could have milked the ruse for another few miles.

Another twenty minutes and Dean was pulling the car over, gliding it carefully over the crunching gravel by the side of the road. He killed the engine and pulled Sam's phone out of Sam's jeans.

"Bobby? Hey, man. We're here," he said.

"Which one are you?" Bobby asked.

"Dean."

"Well then Dean, turn on your headlights for a second. I'll find you."

Dean put the phone away and then snapped on the sidelights, looking round in the forest before him.

"Why'd he pick a forest?" Sam asked quietly.

"How should I know? All I know is, he's gonna set this straight," Dean muttered, pre-occupied while he watched for Bobby.

"How? I mean, what exactly is he going to do to us?" George asked.

"I don't know," Dean said irritably.

"But what if–" he began.

Dean's door shot open and he jumped about six inches from his seat in shock. He looked up quickly, finding Bobby standing there, shining a torch down at him.

"Now you_look_ like Sam, so I'm guessing you're Dean?" he said with a smile.

"Yeah," he admitted glumly, switching off the sidelights and taking the keys, climbing out of the car quickly. Sam followed suit, letting George out of the back seat before closing the door.

"So," Sam said eagerly.

"Yeah," Bobby nodded quickly. "Who's your friend?"

"George," he supplied immediately. "But I'm currently trapped in the body of my mother. You got a problem with that?" he demanded.

Bobby looked at Sam, which he remembered was actually Dean, and then looked over at Dean, who he now realised must be Sam, and shook his head.

"You brought her – _him_ – instead of just blood. Good," he said wisely. Dean and Sam both shrugged. Bobby gestured for them to come away from the car, and turned toward the forest edge.

"Where's he going?" George asked warily.

"Disneyland," Dean snapped irritably, already walking after him. Sam looked at George and waved him to follow.

They began to walk into the forest.


	6. Chapter 6

**SIX**

Bobby led them deep into the forest, not looking back, and the three of them hurried after him. Dean cast a quick glance at his wrist, then remembered it wasn't his and his watch was not there. He turned and looked back at Sam in the gloom.

"Hey," he called. "What time is it?"

"Eleven twenty," he called back, then looked back down at his wrist. "Dude, you need to set the functions on this thing. And the date's wrong. You'd think you'd find time to at least put the date right!"

"Bite me," he retaliated, following Bobby.

Bobby stopped abruptly, looking around and dropping a small bag to the ground. He crouched down and began taking out small items. Dean caught him up first and crouched down next to him.

"Well?" he asked quickly.

"This won't take long – it's all about blood," he said firmly. "Trouble is, you gotta get that George-girl-thing to shed a little too. And he ain't going to like it," he added, more quietly.

"Why's that?" Dean asked, eyeing the distance still between George and them.

"The people in the two swapped bodies are linked. If one dies, the other does too," Bobby said quickly.

"So… he's _not_ George?"

"He's not George. I'm guessing he's the thing that started all this," he whispered hoarsely. "That name you asked me about? It wasn't Carl Smeddall, it was _Ka'Sm'dall_."

"Great. What's that?"

"It's a homeless entity, kinda like a cuckoo or a hermit crab. Only they're supposed to be extinct. I'm hoping once he gets cut, we'll see for sure."

"Got it," Dean said quickly, and Bobby smiled suddenly. "What?"

"I've heard of brothers looking alike, man, but you really are the spitting image of Sam," he grinned.

"Save it," he said curtly, standing again just as Sam and George caught them up.

"Well?" Sam asked.

"Blood," Dean said. "All three of us need to donate a little."

"What?" George demanded. "How much? My mom's got low blood pressure, if I get cut I'll faint," he said defensively.

"Fine, stay in your mom your whole life," Dean shrugged. But then the next instant he whipped around and punched George across the face.

He stumbled back and Dean muttered something, closing on him quickly and slamming a fist up into his chin. This time he simply toppled into the mulch.

"See?" Dean accused Sam, pointing down at the unconscious George, "You punch like a girl!"

"Hey!" Bobby said swiftly, "Let's get started, shall we?"

Sam didn't even bother defending himself. He simply stalked past Dean and the unconscious George, going to Bobby and pushing the sleeve of Dean's black jacket away from his hand.

Bobby took a small hunting knife, warmed it over a cigarette lighter, and then nicked Sam's thumb. He picked up what looked like an egg-cup, before squeezing a little of Sam's blood into it. He motioned Dean over and did the same to him before turning to his pile of small accoutrements.

"What's that?" Dean asked, crouching down to see clearly.

"Don't touch," Bobby said defensively. "I paid two hundred bucks for that. If you pay me half, I'll tell you what it is," he added.

"Fair enough," Dean said, getting to his feet and wiping his hands together. They watched him, then turned to George. "What about him – her – it?" he asked, confused.

"Yeah, get me a little blood," Bobby said, holding out the egg-cup.

"What, you mean… just kinda… cut and… like–" Sam havered.

"Give me that," Dean said shortly, taking the cup and pulling out one of his own knives. "Sam," he called, and he followed. "You hold him. I don't want him to wake up and spoil anything."

"Why would he do that?"

"Cos he ain't him. Now hold him," he said firmly. Sam grabbed George's forearm and hand, and Dean nicked at the thumb, letting the blood drip into the cup.

It frothed slightly and Dean looked over at Bobby.

"It's not supposed to bubble, right?" he asked, carrying it back over.

"That's good for you, but bad for him," he said, taking it off him and adding pinches of smelly herbs and what appeared to be cooking spices. He popped the top off a small bottle and added some dark liquid, possibly purple. He swilled it round then handed it to Dean.

"What do I do with this?" he asked, mystified.

"Well drink a bit, you eejit!" Bobby tutted. "Make it quick, but not too much. Then give some to Sam. Hurry up, time's running out."

Dean sniffed the cup, made a face, then simply closed his eyes and took half a mouthful. He almost choked on it, but then handed it over to Sam. He managed to swallow it down as he watched his own face on his brother react to the mixture. He took the cup back off him and looked at Bobby.

"Now what?" he asked, handing it back to him.

Bobby watched him for a few seconds, then walked over to George.

"Now we gotta stop this thing from doing this to anyone else," he said grimly. He crouched down and slapped at him, watching him wake and hauling him to sit up, talking and handing him the cup.

Dean tried to watch, but quickly realised the night was much darker than he had previously thought. He swung round to find Sam, but suddenly the ground wasn't where it was supposed to be. It lurched unexpectedly under his feet and pitched him over.

He felt cold, damp leaves in his face. Then he felt nothing at all.

-------------------------------------------------

Sam opened his eyes, finding mulch in his face and turning it quickly, spitting out the wet leaf mould. He realised Bobby was standing over him.

"Sam?" Bobby asked. "Come on, get up," he said, putting a hand out and patting his shoulder before getting up himself.

Sam rolled over, groaning with sudden stiffness and wanting to just stretch out.

"You'll be alright in a few minutes," Bobby said wisely. "While you're getting your muscles back, you can help me stake and burn this_Ka'Sm'dall_ creature."

There was a heavy snapping of twigs and a rustle of leaves behind him, and Bobby turned quickly.

"I don't think so," Sam said with a wide smile, pulling a gun from the back of his jeans and cocking it slowly, deliberately. "This one's just about the right height, this time. I think I'll keep it." He raised the gun to point it at Bobby.

"Why do I never see this coming?" Bobby breathed.

"You did it wrong," the _Ka'Sm'dall_, in the body of Sam, sneered. He advanced slowly on Bobby. "You're supposed to drink in the same order you cut. You handed me Sammy-Boy on a plate. For that, I won't kill you."

"Well gee, that's kind of you," Bobby replied sarcastically, trying to think where he'd left his gun.

"Very. I've killed so many, trying to find a perfect body. But I like this one – tall enough, strong enough, young enough. And very, very lithe, in just the right foxy kinda way," the _Ka'Sm'dall_ grinned with Sam's face. "I'm going to enjoy this one."

"Really, you can stop right there," Bobby protested. "I really don't need to know."

"Humans," the _Ka'Sm'dall_ snorted derisively. His gaze darted around the small open area quickly. "Ok then," he said suddenly, looking back at Bobby and nodding. "Time I made tracks."

-------------------------------------------------

_Soul-taker, heart-breaker, some say she's one of a kind. Head turner, what a looker. She's enough to make a grown man cry…_

Dean was sure he could hear something. Something very familiar. But it was too far away, or he was. It was just slightly out of earshot, just not quite loud enough. And yet… and yet… there it was…

_Well I don't need her hanging around my door – cos she's bringing me down. Down on love… She's bringing me down. D-D-D-Down on love…_

He realised it was a song, and that he was even humming to it. His eyes shot open and he found himself lying on the ground, facing up at the stars, his mobile phone blaring away.

_Thrill seeker, what a deceiver, she'll leave you hanging out on the line. Money-maker, mover and a shaker – she'll steal your heart but she won't do the time–_

He went through his pockets and found it, the song now uncomfortably loud. He pressed the button quickly and slapped it to his ear.

"Yeah! It's me!" he blurted. He cleared his throat, hoping it _was_ actually him this time.

"Dean! Goddamn boy, thought you'd be out all night!" Bobby shouted from the phone.

"Where are you?" Dean demanded, getting to his knees in the messy mulch and looking round. He noticed George still apparently out cold on the ground, but no-one else. "Where is everybody?"

"I'm in your trunk, dumbass! Come and get me out!"

He pocketed the phone swiftly and put his hands to his face, then into his hair, feeling his own face had returned and whooping and grinning like a small boy. Then he scrambled to his feet, ignoring the strange lethargic feel to his muscles. He hurried around the unconscious George on the damp woodland floor.

He searched for his keys even as he ran for the road. He skidded to a halt at the rear of the car, his joy turning to surprise and then anger as he noticed the scratches on the boot lid.

"Son of a bitch!" he growled, unlocking the boot quickly and lifting the lid.

Bobby was cradling his phone by his ear – not an easy thing to do while being bent up and squashed over a dozen sharp pointy hunting tools.

"Bobby, what the hell happened to you?" he demanded, reaching in and helping him to turn and try to crawl out of the boot. "Where's Sam?"

"George, that's what!" he spat. "I told you he wasn't really him!" Dean grabbed him and pulled and he all but fell to the gravel. Dean helped him to his feet quickly. "It's the _Ka'Sm'dall_ alright – and he's got Sam," Bobby added curtly. "What time is it?"

Dean looked at his wrist automatically, then grinned.

"It's_my_ wrist, man!" he cried happily, then the gravity of the situation cut through the euphoria. He cleared his throat. "It's eleven forty," he added seriously.

"Then you've got twenty minutes to find that spirit-thing and bring him back here," he said quickly. "Otherwise Sam is lost."

"Lost?" he demanded, his head still a little muggy.

"Lost! Stuck in that girl! Just go!" he shouted, exasperated. Dean slewed round him and took off running.

Bobby shook his head, turning back to the boot and looking in at the impressive array of tools. He started to sort through for what he might need.

-------------------------------------------------

He careened through the blackness, his feet connecting harshly with the sodden ground. His hands – now Sam's hands – grabbed at the trunks closest to him for purchase, hauling him through the forest. He risked a look back over his now strangely taller male shoulder.

He collided with a tree, bouncing back and almost losing his footing. He turned and scrabbled through the spare branches, pushing and shoving, urging his feet not to slip against the leaf mould.

"Stop!" Dean shouted from somewhere behind.

He ignored the shout, forging on. The forest floor was not helping him but he picked up the pace, furiously wrenching through the trees, grabbing at low branches for help, not even feeling the drag and potential sting of leaves in his new face. His desperate panting was deafening, the sweat and fear on his face competing for importance.

His brain climbed down from its panicked decision to flee and started to work.

_He's never gonna stop. I am screwed. Unless…_

He stopped abruptly, looking up and around. He found the tree with the largest trunk and threw himself at it, kicking his trainers into the bark and hauling himself up.

_Don't have to evade him for long. Just a little while longer…_

He hurled himself up the tree.

Something large and covered in leaves swept into his newly stolen body. He cried out in surprise. He realised his hands had let go. There was the fleeting sensation of floating.

He landed in the mulch with a dull _thud_, crushing all the wind from him effortlessly. As he fought to breathe he stared up at the black sky, hoping against hope.

There was a noise of breaking twigs and he forced his head up off the ground.

Dean dropped the substantial branch from his hands, wiping them together professionally. He sniffed, looked over at the creature hiding in Sam, found him on his back, and walked over.

He sucked in air as best he could, coughing out in painful rasps lodged in his throat. Dean stopped, standing over him and shaking his head disapprovingly.

"Dude, you climb like a girl," he said scathingly. He put his hand to the back of his jeans, pulling out his nickel-plated Colt. He hefted it in his palm before looking at it and jamming the breech block back, pumping a round up into the chamber.

"Wait," he managed, swallowing and getting Sam's breath back in one shot, "don't you do this!"

"Me?" Dean asked, surprised. The two of them stared at each other, their breath misting in the cold, damp wooded air. Just for a second, Dean appeared less than sure. Then he straightened his back, standing taller. "It's not me," he said simply, his confidence restored. "It's all you."

He lifted the handgun to point it at Sam's – or rather, the _Ka'Sm'dall_'s – head.

"Wait!" he pleaded. "I have family too!"

"You're breaking my heart," Dean sneered.

The creature laughed suddenly, and Dean paused, expecting trouble.

"You don't have one to break," he grinned maliciously. "Look, honestly… I'm just trying to survive. You'd do the same."

"No," Dean said simply, taking aim, "I wouldn't."

"Don't kill me! I'm in your brother! You'll kill him too!" the creature cried desperately.

"Look, I'm sorry, man – or _whatever_ you really are – I really am. If there was any other way… But there ain't, and sure as I'm the one holding the gun, you are _not_ trapping my brother in the body of an old woman for the rest of his life," he said firmly.

He fired.


	7. Chapter 7

**SEVEN**

Sam opened his eyes, looking around slowly. His throat felt dry and for some reason parts of his face were stinging. There was a dull ache in his left leg. He lifted his head and looked around, hearing voices.

He saw a room in a wooden cabin, small but warm, with a roaring yet modest log fire providing a nice steady supply of heat. The tiny windows far to his left appeared misted up with condensation, and he remembered woods and wet leaves in a sudden flash.

His attention was drawn again to the sound of voices, and he looked to his right slightly to see Bobby sitting in a cosy-looking armchair, holding a steaming mug of something. He was looking at someone, enthralled by their conversation.

"Naw, you need something heavier to put a kink in a zombie's stride; it's all about stopping-power," the voice said, and Sam blinked.

_I recognise that voice!_ he grinned.

He leaned forward and to his left, trying to see round the side of the other armchair. But the owner of the voice leaned forward to pick up the mug of hot liquid from the small table by his side, and Sam gasped in relief.

"Dean!" he blurted, and his brother looked over at him quickly. "You're you!"

"Yeah, how about that," he grinned, putting his mug back down and getting up slowly. Sam watched him walk over the few feet toward him.

It was then that Sam realised he was currently lounging in the corner of a sofa, a rather comfortable place that included cushions and a warm blanket.

"We're us again, Sammy," Dean grinned. "You feeling ok?" he asked, bending over and putting a hand to the back of Sam's neck, peering into his eyes suspiciously.

"Yeah, I guess," he managed, and Dean let his hand drop. Sam blinked a few times and lifted a hand lazily, rubbing the back of his head that was beginning to throb. "What happened?"

Dean sucked in a breath, walking back to his chair and sitting slowly. Bobby looked at him, then gestured back to Sam with his head.

"Well… Bobby saved us, Sam. He did his little _hoodoo put-us-right-doo_ and we're all back as we were. There was one tiny complication though," he added gingerly.

Sam shifted his elbows under him and sat up slowly, still feeling his head.

"What was it?" he asked, watching Bobby get up. He brought over a mug of steaming soup and Sam took it gratefully.

"George wasn't really George – he wasn't even Mrs Fudly. He was the original creature that was swapping people, a _Ka'Sm'dall_. He had to either steal a body beyond midnight, or get the swapped-out real owner to die to keep the body he stole," Dean said slowly. "He was _dis_possessing people."

"Typical," Sam muttered. "What's that got to do with me?"

"He tried to snatch you once Bobby had us right," he said simply.

"And?"

"And Dean didn't want him to get away with it," Bobby put in. "He brought him back, we swapped you back."

"Oh. So… how did you bring him back without him running away again?"

"It's a bit hard to run with a bullet in your leg, ain't it, Dean?" Bobby said accusingly.

"Hey, we were running out of time, and I didn't have a choice," he said simply, but it was obvious he was past caring anyway.

Sam gasped, pulling the blanket away from his leg and finding a large crisp white bandage. It covered the few inches directly above his left knee, the jeans all torn up and bloodied around it. He put his hand to the leg and squeezed slightly, trying to believe it was his again.

"Dude! You shot me!" he realised.

"I shot the _Ka'Sm'dall_," he pointed out. "And anyway, it's just a flesh wound, I _can_ aim," he said dismissively.

Sam looked from Dean to Bobby, his mouth hanging open. Bobby just looked apologetic, so Sam looked back at Dean.

"I can't believe you shot me!" he grumbled.

"It was that or die anyway, Sam," Bobby added quietly.

"But you_shot_ me, you jerk!" he blurted at Dean. His brother turned and looked at him, and Sam saw the warning look in his eyes and decided to leave it for now. "So where is he?" he blustered, trying to change at least the tone of the subject.

"Burnt," Dean said shortly. "He's not going to be swapping anyone else _for_ anyone else."

"Oh," Sam managed. "Ah… ok."

Bobby looked at Dean, then stood abruptly.

"Well now we know Sam's ok, I'm heading home," he said firmly. "Now remember you boys, come see me sometime when it's not all about hunting. I've got some kegs to open. And don't forget that leg is gonna need a lot of resting. No running after werewolves or vampires, got it?"

"Yes sir, I'll watch him," Dean said with a smile, getting to his feet. They shook hands and patted backs, Dean walking with him out of the door behind Sam's sofa. They left the tiny log room and disappeared into the night, their voices audible but their words indistinct.

Sam stretched slightly, yawning and looking at his cup of hot soup. He smiled as he picked it up, looking at his hands and just feeling glad they were his, and in the right place again. He sipped at the cup slowly, being careful not to burn himself, and was content to watch the tiny fire, pull the blanket up round him warmly, and smell the hot vegetable soup.

He felt a dull ache in his leg and sighed philosophically. He decided he wasn't actually too upset and it was probably because he was on medication for pain and infection. He sank back into the sofa comfortably.

Presently he heard Dean come back in, closing a heavy-sounding door behind him and walking back to his chair. He sat down in it as if aiming for a few feet too low, slamming down and sighing a long, uneasy sound.

"Dean?" Sam asked in a small voice.

He waited, and eventually Dean's twinkly green eyes appeared round the headrest slowly.

"Sam," he said confidently.

"Look, ah… We've had a really strange couple of days, and… I just want to say… It's been weird," he said uncomfortably. Dean held his gaze, a slow smile spreading over his face.

"It certainly has," he agreed, then stood up. He bent over and shifted the armchair round slightly, so that it still caught the warmth from the fire, but also let him see Sam unimpeded.

"So… what have you learnt from all this?" Sam asked gamely, sensing that, while his brother appeared wicked-tired, he still had his sense of humour.

"What have I learnt?" he prompted, sitting down again and getting comfortable. "I've learnt… Dude, you are _light_," he observed. "And tall. I've never seen so many bald patches." Sam laughed abruptly, surprising him nicely. "So what have _you_ learnt?" he asked his younger brother.

"You're heavy," Sam admitted. "In a good way. I mean… now I know why you win most of your fights," he shrugged. "I used to think you were good, but now I know it's just body weight."

"Bitch," Dean smirked, and Sam grinned to himself. It was quiet for a long moment, save the sound of the fire and the brothers' occasional sips of hot soup. "You know what's really weird?" Dean asked quietly.

"What?"

"That… you did just fine, being me," he said. "You kept it together, called Bobby back, arranged everything, kept us on track. I was a basket-case," he admitted ruefully. "I really sucked at being you."

"I think you're supposed to," Sam said easily. "And anyway, I wasn't that good at being you when it came down to it. It was like… kinda like a fourteen year old being given a beer coupon. I had no idea how to use you. You would have ploughed through those policemen. I just stood there talking till that _Ka'Sm'dall_ thing helped us out of it," he said glumly.

Dean chuckled suddenly, reaching out and smacking him on his good knee.

"So we're agreed: we're not swapping back?" he joked.

"Absolutely not," Sam said, relieved.

"Good. I'm going to have nightmares about toilets for the rest of my life," he admitted, his grin dimming for a second, and Sam laughed out loud again.

"Dude, you should have seen your face!"

"I was wearing _your_ face at the time!"

"And then the receptionist at the Travelodge clearly had a thing for me!" Sam laughed.

"Hey, it was _my_ face she had a thing for," he grinned.

"You know what?" Sam said suddenly.

"No, what?" he asked.

"I think I'm really lucky. That you're my brother."

"Sam please," he sighed, rolling his eyes.

"And I also think _you're_ really lucky," he added.

"Me? Why? Cos I have you as a brother?" he said, grimacing with distaste.

"No, man, cos when I was you, I had to go to the toilet like twice, and 'wow' – that's all I'm going to s-"

"You looked!" Dean shouted accusingly.

"Like you didn't?" Sam laughed.

"You are one sick puppy, Samuel Winchester," he chuckled, shaking his head, and they sat back, sipping their soup.

"I do have a question, though," Sam said thoughtfully, and Dean sat up again, looking at him. He had about a mile of amusement on his face.

"What, Sammy? What question do you have for me?" he asked indulgently.

"Well… when are you going to fix that rattling sound in the car?"

**THE END**


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